


Beneath the Ice

by CityofFallenAngels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Whump, Mycroft-centric, Nightmares, Protective Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 21:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12093339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityofFallenAngels/pseuds/CityofFallenAngels
Summary: Mycroft is not an Ice-Man. Did people really think otherwise?





	Beneath the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> I love Mycroft. He is my absolute favorite character out of the Sherlock TV series. There is so much about him left unexplored, and I find him such a rich, interesting and intricate character. People have always portrayed him as an ice-man, but I don't believe he is.

Mycroft had never been the kind of person to show his weaknesses. Not to people, not to family. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried since he was five. He had always learnt to control his feelings. But in his line of work, he often paid a painful price. And nightmares, nightmares were the one thing he couldn’t escape from. It was as though all the past demons demanded to be felt. And he eluded sleep. He eluded the unconsciousness for as much as he could, drowning himself into work, until his eyes burned, and his hands shook, and the ink spilled from his discordant fingers. He drank wine, and sometimes, it worked. People didn’t see it, didn’t see the paleness of his skin from the lack of sleep, the bags under his eyes, the scars under his sleeves that told a hundred stories. It was all forgotten, unnoticed. He hated to sleep, he truly did. It was the one period he lost control. He needed work desperately to numb the pain in his heart, not that he needed to beg for it--people needed him far more than he needed himself. He was busy, and that was perfect, for busy kept him sane, and as long as he didn’t need to sleep often, he was fine. He was revitalised.

It was another of one amongst a hundred of occasions that he arrived at 221B Baker Street yet again, armed with a case that was urgent yet he simply did _not_ have time for. They had just managed to settle most of the crisis, and today he had finally found a time to visit the flat. As he went up he found himself secretly loathing and resenting the useless people that couldn’t do anything. He braced himself for Sherlock's mockery and annoyed bites. When he reached the flat, Mrs Hudson informed him that Sherlock and John were out. Great. He thanked her, shaking away her offer of a cup of tea. He went into the living room and placed his briefcase down. He settled on the worn couch. It was ridiculously comfortable.  It had been a hell of a week, or rather, a hell of a month. Piles after piles of paperwork, the serious wars that were threatening to break out in Korea, the gruesome images that he was sent from distraught ministers and politicians. He couldn’t recall sleeping more than three hours the entire week. It was probably for the better, for the nightmares had returned. And for the first time in a long while, Mycroft felt truly exhausted, like his body had finally surrendered to it. He swallowed, furiously blinking his tired eyes. But slowly, the file slipped from his fingers, the wind whistling gently through the window was like a melody, and he surrendered to the sleep that had eluded him for so long.

 

* * *

 

He had always known there were consequences when he first joined.

But he had not known _what_ . There was no way of possibly knowing until you were in it yourself. He had been a fresh-faced graduate from Oxford then, a stellar pupil who impressed all that set eyes on him. Recruitment was lightning-fast. It was as though he was born for the career. Lying, manipulating was part of the job, but it was _concealing_ that was his true gift. It wasn’t that he was strong. It was that he had mastered the art of hiding his intentions from his steel grey blue eyes, the power of delivering an utterly normal yet immovable presence. He rose through the ranks rapidly, and of course, he was sent on fieldwork. Missions, if one could call them. And he didn’t get away unscathed every time. There was a reason why he detested legwork.

He remembered the blood, the blood that poured out of his body, the sound of a gun reloading behind his head as his captors laughed. The sight of another agent sprawled on the floor as the other man bent over him with bloodied knuckles. The sensation of rope tearing through his flesh, and a whip behind his back. They wouldn’t stop. He had been in a cell. It had been dark. Pitch black dark. They were right behind him, stroking that leather whip, as blood rained down his back.

_Please don’t. Please don’t. Please._

The sounds of screams that pierced through the air.

_Please, please--_

_Mycroft…_

_Mycroft…_ The voice hissed and the cloaked man’s fingers trailed across his naked skin.

A hand reached out and grabbed him from the darkness, and Mycroft jerked up wildly with a cry, and his training instincts kicked in. His fingers flew and gripped that person’s throat. There was a yell, two yells, a voice shouting, _“Stop, stop!”_

He growled and pressed his attacker down against something, gripping tighter as his attacker choked and wheezed and clamped desperately on his fingers.

_“John, turn on the bloody lights!”_

_What?_

And suddenly the black world exploded into light. He gasped at the sudden brightness. And then he looked down, and he realised that he was staring right at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring at him with eyes that were wide, and possibly filled with terror. And John, John was right at the corner, his face a mixture of shock and sadness. He immediately released his grip on Sherlock's neck. The younger Holmes broke into a series of violent coughs. Mycroft stumbled away, but Sherlock slowly reached towards Mycroft’s arm, holding it.

“It’s okay, it’s okay Mycroft. It’s me, Sherlock. You’re in a flat at 221B Baker Street. John’s just at the corner.” Sherlock was saying this in a very calm voice. He carefully put his arms around his brother, letting his brother’s damp face nestle into his chest, and he stroked his head, all the while repeating the sentence over and over again in a calm, low voice. Mycroft’s erratic breathing slowly evened to a normal pace.

After a long moment, which could have been many long minutes but felt like hours, Mycroft pulled away. He sat back on the couch, taking a few deep, shaky breaths, gazing at anything but his brother’s face. He finally mustered the courage to look up, and saw the bright white finger imprints on his brother’s now reddened neck, along with small crescent-moons of blood. He paled.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s alright. It’s alright Mycroft.” Sherlock was looking at him, eyes filled with concern, though he was trying to keep his face normal.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just…”

“Stop. Stop. It’s okay.” Sherlock held him again. “How long have you been having these nightmares?”

“Ever since I entered the service many years ago. There were a few...incidents.” He swallowed. “They did things. Things that...that I can’t even...I have been having nightmares ever since.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mycroft looked down. “I couldn’t. Usually if I avoid sleeping it’s fine but...there was several gruesome images recently at work. It probably triggered back the memories. All of that...it was confidential. It was work. _Work_. I had to bear it all alone.”

Sherlock gazed at his brother. “Not anymore. You don’t have to go through this alone anymore. I promise," he said softly.

Mycroft let out a shaky sigh, and pressed his forehead onto his brother's shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> There. I really feel for Mycroft. And after a while I've finally published another Mycroft and Sherlock story. I would really appreciate kudos and/or feedback if you enjoyed this. I am suffering from a bout of depression, family stinks...any comments would be appreciated. Constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms. Thank you.


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